That Was Part of the Plan

by LysandraLeigh

One year has passed since Lyra (formerly Bellatrix) Black traveled thirty years into an alternate future. Unfortunately, this means she's expected to go back to boring Hogwarts for more boring normal people stuff. Except, there is that Tournament thing. And Angel Black. And her muggleborn girlfriend. And maybe an international incident or two... Never mind, should be fun.

17. A Certain Reputation

The Wizengamot Hall was somewhere on the island of Anglesey — though, as happened with many magical sites, Emma Granger understood the question of its physical location was largely a theoretical one.

Anglesey had long been a centre of Celtic society, apparently, a religious site of some importance dating back centuries before Romans had ever set foot on the isles. With the collapse of the Empire, with Romano-British kingdoms, more traditionally-minded Celtic tribes, and Germanic peoples invading from the Continent all squabbling with each other, the mages of the isles sought to create some stabilising power to step into the vacuum Rome had left. In the Fifth Century, dozens of influential mages, petty kings and tribal chiefs and powerful merchants, had met on Anglesey, and between them formed a body that had eventually become today's Wizengamot.

The modern Hall was, according to legend, built on the very site the first Wizengamot had elected Merlin their first Chief Warlock, though it wasn't actually possible to walk there, anymore. Shortly after the Statute, the entire thing had been rebuilt — it'd been necessary, the old Hall had not made it through the war against Cromwell in one piece — complete with some of the most powerful, most thorough wards ever set anywhere in the world, against magical assault and non-magical detection. As a consequence, the Hall and the couple square miles it sat on had become...unmoored, in a way. It simply wasn't possible to get there through purely physical means, on foot or even by air. Magical travel was necessary, and only through the narrow means the wards allowed.

Emma knew the Blacks' rooms under the Hall, near the centre of the sprawling subterranean network of hallways and offices, was richly appointed in blacks and silvers, perhaps the single finest space Emma had ever been in. But she could hardly see any of it right now — the moment after leaving the floo, Emma had stumbled into a nearby chair, shaky and dizzy and flushed, she couldn't see straight enough to take in much of anything.

"Here," a voice said — Andromeda, she thought — as a smooth porcelain cup was pushed into her hand. Unthinkingly, Emma accepted it, brought it up to her lips to take a shaky sip.

Her vision instantly cleared, the worst of her unsteadiness and inexplicable feverishness vanishing. Emma sighed, took another sip, each one making her feel noticeably better. There was probably a potion of some kind in it. It mostly just tasted like black tea, a hint of honey — which was still slightly unfamiliar even after decades, British tea was different from what she'd grown up with — but there was a faint tang to it that wasn't quite right. According to Hermione, potions often tasted very unpleasant, but she'd had a few so far and they'd all been fine. Maybe Ted took care to make his not completely vile, she didn't know.

Once she thought her voice would be mostly even, Emma said, "I really do hate the floo. Couldn't we get one of Lyra's portals in here?" That was how she'd gotten to Ancient House in the first place — once Lyra had realised Emma would be getting more involved, and would thus need to get around more easily, she'd set one up in the library without even asking for permission first. Not that Emma at all minded, she much preferred her portals above most forms of magical transportation.

Even if the space-bending magic bedsheets in question had been cobbled together by a fourteen-year-old amateur. Magic was absurd to think about sometimes.

Somewhere behind her to her right, Sirius snorted. "I'd like to see Little Bella try to break the Wizengamot wards — even Old Snakeface never managed to crack them."

"I'm pretty sure gates don't work across the wardline here at all, because of the space-warping effects. Lyra is mad clever, but I don't think anyone's that clever."

That voice, Emma didn't recognise. She glanced up, finding herself in the little reception area just outside of Sirius's (Lord Black's) office — carpet for a floor and smooth tile for wall and ceiling, chairs and sofas, all in black and silver and red, a desk for an assistant, currently unused. Andromeda was leaning against the corner of the desk, teacup steaming in her hand; by the direction his voice had come from, Sirius was probably leaning in the doorway to his office, Emma couldn't see him from here. But they weren't alone, a guest sitting in a less than entirely proper slouch in a nearby armchair.

The girl was wearing formal robes in blue and white, silver glinting on her fingers and around her neck, hair shifting from auburn to strawberry and back again, like a dirty blonde tinted with red, drawn into narrow braids framing her face, the rest let free to tumble over her shoulders. Emma thought girl because she couldn't be older than Hermione, the contrast between the finery she was wearing and the youth of her face almost obscene. It took a moment for Emma to place her — the awkward smirk was the biggest hint, really. "Lady Bones. I almost didn't recognise you."

Susan Bones, who before this summer Emma had known only by name (one of Hermione's classmates she occasionally studied with), twisted her lips into a scowl. "Yeah, I know." She shifted in her chair, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Mum thought it was a good idea, just for appearances, you know, but I feel bloody weird."

By "Mum" Susan really meant her aunt, the same Amelia Bones who was Director of Law Enforcement at the moment — Susan's mother (and father) had died in the war, she'd been raised by Amelia and various grandmothers and cousins. Susan usually referred to her as her aunt in public, but she had a tendency to slip among their little alliance. (After one such slip she'd admitted, somewhat awkwardly, that she hadn't even known Amelia wasn't her real mother until she'd been six or so, it was hard to remember to use the "proper" term sometimes.) While Susan was technically the Lady of their House, Amelia normally voted for the Bones seat, but she didn't think it appropriate to preside over the body and vote in it, so Susan was sometimes brought in on such occasions, trials and things.

Emma had wondered why she hadn't voted their seat during the motion to expel Dumbledore over the summer, but it was better she hadn't in retrospect — she would have voted long before they'd flipped to kill it, it might have passed if the Boneses hadn't abstained.

For a moment, Emma considered saying something reassuring, but Susan really didn't need Emma mothering her, she was fine. Emma drained the rest of her tea, set the cup on her side table. "We should get going. I know we were cutting it close on purpose, there likely isn't much time left."

Andromeda flicked her wrist, shaking her sleeve up enough to see her watch. "There's a little time yet, but might as well. Bríd Ingham should be in by now, so we're good on the timing." Emma successfully managed to get to her feet, only slightly unsteady from the bloody floo trip, accepting the leather binder Andromeda had plucked off the desk. "The notes you asked for. Also, all the documentation relevant to your investiture is there, if some idiot decides to challenge you."

"Oh, I hope someone does." Sirius was indeed leaning against the doorframe outside his office (all of the Blacks had a tendency to sort of pose, wherever they happened to be, as though all the world truly were a stage), but unlike the three of them hadn't even bothered making himself properly presentable — he was barefoot, in jeans and a tee shirt, his hair a riotous mess of black curls. The first time she'd met him, she'd believed at a glance he and Lyra were closely related, the similarity was very obvious. In fact, they were similar enough Sirius looked rather androgynous, face and hair almost too pretty for a man his age. (She personally thought he was quite handsome, but she tried not to notice, since he was technically her boss. Also, Dan would never stop teasing her about it.) "It'd be tedious, yeah, but I'd love to see a Death Eater be eviscerated by a muggle on the Wizengamot floor, make my fucking day."

Emma gave him a cold smile. "Now, Sirius, you know I won't be doing anything so dramatic. The House of Black does have a certain reputation, you know — we can't be seen publicly eviscerating anyone, no matter how deserving."

Sirius cackled.

With a last few reassurances and wishes for good luck, Emma and Susan stepped out into the hallway, the door to the Black office clicking closed behind them. The passage was plain and dark and moodily lit, either way looking much the same to Emma — she'd been down here before, of course, but the lack of any useful landmarks always had her getting lost in short order. (She could probably find the offices for the Inghams and the Monroes, but that was about it.) Luckily, Susan led them off to the left with no sense of hesitation, so Emma just went along.

Not for the first time, she wondered if there actually were useful landmarks to navigate with, but perceived through magic somehow. It would explain how the mages always seemed to know where they were going. The thought was slightly irritating, but she didn't know if there was anything to be done about it.

"I like the outfit, by the way." There was a peculiar note on Susan's voice, something Emma couldn't quite read. (Too faint, occlumency was such a cheat.)

Emma felt a self-conscious smirk twitch at her lips. She and Andromeda had debated how she should present herself during her introduction to the Wizengamot, discussions on subtle social and psychological cues that had gone on for hours. In fact, Susan escorting her to the Hall was one of the results of those discussions. For one, the House of Bones was a name that held inestimable weight, carrying with it a reputation that was probably cleanest of all the leadership in their little alliance — the Boneses had almost always held something of a moral high ground among the Seventeen Founders, a stance that had only strengthened in the last century or so. (As Emma understood it, they'd originally been the priesthood of a sort of state-sponsored religion, though their role had changed much since then some vestiges of moral authority remained.) For another, Andromeda had warned against Sirius's presence (or her own) at Emma's first appearance, not wanting to give the impression she was an empty puppet with no agency of her own. Anyone too closely tied to the Blacks, or any of their more magically powerful or ethically unscrupulous allies, would be problematic for the same reason. But she should go with someone, to signal that she had support, that fucking with her, as some of the more stridently racist mages might want to, would be a bad idea.

Walking in alongside the young Lady Bones — fondly regarded and well-connected, but unthreatening and inoffensive — had seemed the best option.

Discussions on how she should speak and dress had gone on for seemingly forever. They'd even brought in Bríd Ingham and Augusta Longbottom to consult with on the matter, which seemed absurd on the face of it...but it did make sense. The Blacks sending a "muggle" to speak for them in the Wizengamot was a matter of enormous political consequence, it was very important they tailor the image she presented to suit their purposes. Besides educating her in the complicated etiquette of magical nobility, bits of culture and history it would be necessary for her to know, in the end they'd all decided it would be most useful for Emma to simply be herself. If somewhat sharper than she would normally be — the Blacks were trying to be provocative, it simply wouldn't do for her to be too polite.

Her dress, though, that was a different matter. They'd decided right away they shouldn't put her in formal robes — which Emma was grateful for, the things were quite uncomfortable. Her suggestion she simply wear the non-magical equivalent had also been rejected, though. They'd toyed with the idea of going in something rather more casual, but Andromeda and Bríd had put together something that was rather awkward, if somewhat entertaining.

The man widely considered to be the most successful Chief Warlock in history was one Henry Black, who'd held the title from the late Sixteenth Century until Frances Cromwell murdered him in the middle of the Seventeenth. He was one of the most highly-respected figures in magical British history, yes, but he was also rather controversial among much of the nobility. The Blacks had wallowed in scandal and madness in the century before him — according to Andromeda, due in part to the Covenant the family had not long before made with the Dark (an entity Lyra described as all the antisocial impulses of humanity, more or less) — and he'd almost single-handedly clawed his family back into respectability, but the methods he'd used to do so had been less than entirely conventional.

To put it plainly, Henry Black had been a blatant class traitor, and one of the most brilliant schemers the Wizengamot had ever seen. Instead of appealing directly to his peers, he'd instead appealed to the commons. In his early years, he'd hired craftsmen and contracted with merchants by the dozens, magical and not, treated them more than kindly and often paid them better than market value, steadily building relationships with communities his peers rarely bothered with. As Lord Black, he'd advocated for their interests, breaking contractual monopolies and pushing for broader personal freedoms. He'd quickly developed a reputation as not only one of the most sympathetic toward the common people, but also the most directly helpful, defending them from his peers in court and throwing gold at all sorts of efforts to alleviate their suffering.

(Even when he hadn't truly had the money to afford it — outsiders didn't realise this, but according to their own records the House of Black had been relatively cash-poor in those early years. Investments made had more than made up for it, but his actions would have seemed very financially reckless at the time.)

He developed close relationships not just with merchants and craftsmen, but farmers and unskilled labourers. And servants. Everywhere. And, slowly, he started asking his new friends to repay his kindness. Not with any serious sacrifice, no, he simply wanted...information, on the other people they worked for. That was all. And he would pay them well for it. And it might be risky, he knew, but if they got in trouble the House of Black would have their backs.

In the worst cases, if they had to, Henry was not above making the people who troubled them...disappear.

Slowly, over the course of decades, Henry had built what was essentially the largest intelligence network Europe had ever seen. His spies were undetectable, ordinary people going about their ordinary business, and they were everywhere. It was said, even before his ascension to Chief Warlock, that nothing was said between two people of any importance, anywhere in Europe, that Henry Black didn't eventually hear about. And he leveraged that intelligence and under-the-table pressure on his peers to get himself selected as Chief Warlock in the first place.

His allies in the Wizengamot and the many friends he'd made among the people had celebrated; his opponents and most of the English Parliament had looked on in silent dread.

There had been many Blacks at the time, Henry's cousins and children and grandchildren, but two stood out most prominently, still remembered in stories told today. Perhaps the most infamous was the metamorph Nymphadora Black, his granddaughter and, rumour had it, personal assassin. There had never been any proof of that, but there had been quite a lot of whispering, a peculiar explosion in magical security...and Henry's enemies had had a most interesting habit of mysteriously turning up dead. It didn't help that Nymphadora herself had apparently been intimidatingly powerful, and a bit creepy.

Supposedly, she was even still around — metamorphs simply couldn't die of old age, so that was certainly possible. According to Lyra, she'd been several of the Dark Lords and Ladies who'd taken over Carthage since Secrecy, but Emma didn't think there was any actual evidence of that.

The other was Nymphadora's mother, Henry's eldest daughter Bellatrix. (The ubiquitous use of the name by modern Blacks was in this Bellatrix's memory, in fact.) She'd been somewhat controversial from the beginning — Henry had spent most of his first couple decades in exile from Britain, and Bellatrix had been the product of an illicit liaison with one of his classmates at Durmstrang, born out of wedlock when Henry had been fifteen or so. A couple years later, her mother was dead (murdered, presumably), and Henry had been forced to flee Scandinavia under suspicious circumstances, later settling in France. Bellatrix (and Henry, actually) had finished her education at Beauxbatons, and the two of them had left for Britain, on a mission to redeem their family and dominate their homeland.

Bellatrix had, essentially, been Henry's right-hand man. She'd been present for all of his above-the-table dealings, later taking over to manage the family's business in his stead, took over his seat in the Wizengamot when he'd been raised to Chief Warlock. When Henry or virtually anyone else in the House was challenged to an honour duel — which had happened, magical nobles were silly and he'd stepped on many toes — Bellatrix almost always stood as champion, for the first time when she'd been only fourteen. (Her name had been a very fitting choice.) She'd been rather intimidating, yes, but she'd also been highly competent and unfailingly polite, perhaps the single most respectable Black of the time.

Though, this was the Blacks they were talking about, that was a rather low bar. Particularly, she'd drawn some negative attention for dressing like a man, and there'd been a lot of talk about the fact that she'd never married, yet had multiple children. With how close she and Henry had been, there had even been whispers that Henry himself was the infamous Nymphadora's father — slander, Emma assumed, Bellatrix had been known to have several paramours who'd presumably been father to her various children, though she'd never admitted which to which. But, save for the more scandalous details about her personal life, there was little else negative to say about her, she'd been a very good Lady Black.

Since taking over as Lord Black, Sirius had decided he wanted to portray himself as a modern day Henry — especially where appealing to the commons and irritating the rest of the nobility were concerned. (Sirius did hate most of his peers rather a lot, for understandable reasons.) He was even talking about full-on adopting muggleborns and the destitute, something Henry had been (in)famous for in his own day. So, if Sirius was going to invoke Henry, they'd decided Emma should invoke Bellatrix.

Which included dressing for the part. Because of course it did.

Emma had been made up in something that was and was not quite dueling clothes — it was sort of the difference between fatigues and dress blues, as Emma understood it. (Oops, American terms, she didn't actually know the British ones off the top of her head...) That is, not something anyone would ever actually fight in, but something formal and vaguely militant-looking. Leather boots, trousers and curious tunic thing (magical cut, it was new to her) made of a peculiar silk-wool blend — stiffer than plain silk, but still showing a hint of its rich shimmer — in the black and red and silver of the House. And over that, a long, dramatic coat, complete with fucking epauletts in silver and gold. It was just...

"You think you feel weird, I feel damn ridiculous." Honestly, the first time she'd seen it in a mirror, she'd had the thought that she looked like a naval officer from the fucking Eighteenth Century, like she should be standing with a uselessly-elaborate dress sword dramatically raised yelling at her men to fire on pirates or something. She was only missing the silly feathered hat and the moustache. She knew they were going for a certain impression — and had gotten pretty close, she looked quite a lot like the portrait they had of the first Bellatrix, though a bit less elaborate and with the wrong hair colour — but still, she'd nearly made a couple jokes about rum-runners and loading the cannons, she just felt so silly.

(Dan had made a well-timed, much more vulgar pun involving a different kind of load, and Emma hadn't been able to breathe from laughing.)

"It's not ridiculous," Susan insisted, sounding a bit surprised. "A bit old-fashioned, I guess, and not the sort of thing people usually wear to the Wizengamot — unless they're named Bríd Ingham, of course."

Emma blinked — the girl was right, this was very similar to how Bríd usually dressed for Wizengamot meetings. Huh, she hadn't noticed that until now.

"I think it's pretty, actually. In a slightly scary, I'm a hard bitch who doesn't have time for your stupid nonsense kind of way, but still, you know what I mean."

She felt her eyebrows track up her forehead. Yes, she knew exactly what Susan meant. And she also had a feeling what that funny tone on her voice was now. Turning the shorter girl a teasing smirk, Emma drawled, "Careful now, Your Grace. You wouldn't want to make your girlfriend jealous, would you?"

Susan's face went very red.

As part of an explanation on how sexual mores were different on the magical side, Hermione had mentioned that she'd walked in on Susan snogging a girl, that they'd been openly dating since halfway through third year, and nobody had a problem with this. (Emma blanked on the girl's name. Hannah, maybe? Hermione got on better with Susan, mentioned her more often, and Emma had never met her.) Even in the short time Emma had known her, she'd noticed that Susan was very unsubtle about her orientation...unusually so for her age, Emma thought, but some people were just ahead of the curve like that. Susan had never been quite that direct with Emma before, and that hint on her voice...

Emma hoped one of Hermione's school friends didn't develop a crush on her. That would just be awkward.

After a few minutes wandering the subterranean hallways seemingly at random, they came to a shallow, slowly twisting staircase, ascended to the main floor flanked by a few aides and such — and, Emma assumed by the formal robes, a member of the Wizengamot, but she didn't recognise him by sight. They soon stepped into the great hall, a cavernous space with a high vaulted ceiling, cast in the brilliant white marble and glittering gold and lush purple velvet of the Wizengamot. The hall was occupied with a thin stream of people wending their way toward the central chamber, the last few stragglers along with assistants and such — it was relatively unusual for Emma not to be accompanied by an assistant — and a clump of spectators and press standing idle or sitting on conjured chairs. The people who were allowed in the Wizengamot Hall while it was in session were rather few, she knew the sound was projected out here for everyone else.

Not for the first time, Emma noted the disparity between the size of the space that had been set aside for spectators and how much of it was actually occupied. And this was a big day — the Wizengamot still hadn't properly addressed the incident at the World Cup, and according to the official calendar Lady Longbottom had requested a block of time at the end of the meeting, purpose unspecified, it was no great leap to assume she intended to address the issue of the captured Death Eaters, many of whom were themselves members of the Wizengamot — so there should be more people hanging about than normal. If that wasn't yet another sign magical Britain had stagnated more than most were willing to admit, interest in their own ruling institutions at an all-time low — not only that, the raw population had dropped steadily since the Statute, more precipitously the last century or so, very few in any position of power seemed to see that with the alarm they should.

All other considerations aside, when a civilisation started to see a significant decline numerically, something must be seriously, seriously wrong. Unfortunately for magical Britain, their leaders were too bloody stupid to panic.

Through a set of tall double doors was the Wizengamot Hall itself, dozens of people inside bustling about in a chaotic, noisy mess. Though, the room sort of always looked a mess. It was a large circular amphitheatre, concentric rings of desks descending toward the floor at the centre, the structure of the Hall — the floors, the walls — were made of polished granite a brilliant white, tiles separated with thin bands of glittering gold, the ceiling appearing to not exist at all, an illusion of some kind reflecting the sky above. (Hermione said the Great Hall at Hogwarts had something similar, though this one was newer and of slightly better quality, without the artifacts along the rim Hermione had described.) Thankfully, it was a cloudy day — when Emma had been in here once before, the sun had been glaring off stone and metal, it'd been quite uncomfortable.

The unified colour theme, however, didn't extend to the many desks — those had all been designed by previous members, according to their own personal sense of aesthetics. There was no common material, stone and wood and ceramic used at random, all in mismatching colours, many including a banner hanging at the front displaying whatever symbols the house used — magical coats of arms tended to be rather archaic, much simpler than the more elaborate modern conventions Emma was more used to (the Blacks' was actually one of the more complex, and it really wasn't much) — all together forming a chaotic, clashing maelstrom of shape and colour that Emma felt was a bit too busy, garish.

Honestly, 'garish' was a word she thought fit mages a lot.

Susan marched down one of the narrow ramps, the space between desks small enough they had to go down single-file, shortly bringing them down to the floor at the centre. At only a glance, Emma noticed they'd finally gotten that seating rearrangement done. Since all the extent Ancient Houses — the direct inheritors of the Seventeen Founders, only five of which had survived to the modern day — were now allied, they'd decided to move their seats around the central ring so they were all adjacent. (Because the other twelve Founders still had seats on the Wizengamot, despite not existing anymore, which was very silly.) As was usually done, their allies had moved themselves to be behind them, curving around the Hall. Emma recognised the arms of a few houses in Ars Publica, arguably the most loyal faction in their alliance, directly behind them, a couple from the Allied Dark closer to the Ministry seats on one side, Common Fate trailing off toward the other side, the Light and Ars Brittania across the floor, curving around the opposite end of the Hall.

There were a couple odd things about this seating decision Emma couldn't quite parse. It was typical for opponents to arrange things to be as close to directly across from each other as they could manage — Ars Publica mirroring Ars Brittania made sense for that reason. However, the Light and Ars Brittania usually sat with the Ministry, but now they'd drifted around a bit, the Ministry right around the border between the Light and the Allied Dark. Directly across from the Ministry seats was Common Fate, traditionally the most pro-Ministry faction, which made no sense at all. She suspected there was something subtle going on here, but she wasn't certain what it was.

"There you two are!" That was Bríd Ingham, leaning against her desk. (The Ingham seat was identifiable by the banner, a gold sun on a green background, which was coincidentally an Irish nationalist symbol on the non-magical side.) Bríd was nearly a decade younger than Emma — though, magical aging being what it was, she looked another decade younger, more early twenties than her actual mid-thirties — perhaps one of the least formal-looking people on the floor. Her short, dark hair was a ruffled mess, dressed for dueling — and not like Emma, the cut without the function, that leather was probably enchanted with the sort of protective spells people wore going into real battles. (It was still pretty, yes, accented with cloth dyed a deep green and ornamented with gold, but the material was a dead giveaway: silk and wool couldn't hold up combat-quality defensive enchantments, but leather and cotton could.) The only concession to the occasion was the cloak, skewed at a jaunty angle across her shoulders — Emma knew enough about magical British social convention to know she'd be considered underdressed for the Wizengamot without it.

Of course, Emma also knew enough to realise she was wearing Irish nationalist colours. Right out in the open, on the Wizengamot floor, because she apparently didn't give a single shit. There was significant overlap between the colours of House Ingham and Saoirse Ghaelach — a coincidence, they were simply drawing from the same cultural background — but the presence of the white fringe on her cloak made it damn obvious.

Hell, Emma wouldn't be surprised if the uniform of Saoirse's new militia, the same one that'd made its first appearance at the World Cup, had been consciously modeled on how Bríd dressed for Wizengamot meetings. It really wasn't a secret that the Inghams were Saoirse's wealthiest backers...or so she'd thought, anyway, nobody really seemed to notice she wasn't being at all subtle.

Bríd had pushed herself off from her desk, striding the few steps across the floor toward them, her cloak swishing dramatically around her. (Magical clothing really was quite silly.) "I thought you might be late. There's only a couple minutes left, you know."

"We got a little hung up, last minute things," Susan said (gracefully not alluding to Emma's problem with the floo). The girl shook hands with Bríd — or, not quite, doing the Celtic thing, gripping rather higher up the forearm — with a short string of words in Irish. The only part Emma recognised was Bríd's proper title, and that only because it happened to be the same one the non-magical Irish used for their prime minister.

Bríd laughed, answered whatever Susan had said with more Irish. (Emma should probably try to learn at least a little bit, with how Sirius had been sidling in their direction, but she was just so busy these days.) With that crooked, cocky smirk of hers, she moved for Emma's hand next — she made the conscious effort to grip her forearm the way she was supposed to, hopefully looked natural this time. "A thuathaigh."

"A thaoisigh." Emma hoped she'd pronounced that correctly, Irish was weird.

Bríd lips just twitched slightly, so must have been close enough to be getting one with. "And are you ready for your big moment?"

That was a question, wasn't it? A 'muggle' in the Wizengamot would be a hell of a scandal. It would undoubtedly draw attention to herself — and, more importantly, Hermione — and while a portion of it would be positive, the balance almost certainly wouldn't be. Hermione was less vulnerable, under the wards of Hogwarts and theoretically capable of defending herself magically, but Dan and herself were another matter.

Andromeda had seriously warned her to expect assassination attempts. The wards over their house had been built up a bit from Lyra's first pass at it, and Emma had on her person two emergency portkeys and a pocketful of potentially helpful potions. And they were still making improvements — there was further work to be done on the house, and Lyra had mentioned something about enchanting a shadow-beacon, so she could find her way to Emma in an emergency no matter the wards she might be under. Lyra had offered to move them to one of the already heavily-fortified Black properties, or assign a house elf to live with them and guard Emma's back, but Emma had promised Dan that getting involved in this whole magical politics business wouldn't unduly affect their daily lives.

The whole point of appealing to the Blacks for assistance in dealing with the bloody magical paparazzi had been to minimise that sort of thing, after all. And yet Emma was undeniably spending more days at Andromeda's offices than her own practice lately. While it wasn't as though their business was suffering, that certainly was a major change for them. She hoped that, once she was caught up on the background and their alliances were established, she would have more time to devote to her actual job — Lyra had assured her that very few Wizengamot representatives spent all of their time dealing with politics, and Andromeda and Sirius were more than capable of taking care of any day-to-day issues — but so far catching up with the learning curve only meant more time spent discussing policy and relationships between Houses and Ministry departments, rather than reading history. It was all fascinating, of course, but she couldn't help feeling a bit bad, letting herself get whisked away into the magical world much as Hermione had three years ago, so much of her life suddenly inexplicable to Dan.

And even among the things that were explicable, she'd elected not to tell him quite a few. Including that Andromeda had suggested that assassination attempts were a legitimate concern. Perhaps it was unfair of her, but she didn't want this to become yet another point of contention between them. Because Dan was almost certain to object to her forcing herself on a world which might well try to kill her for overstepping her place, and Emma had no intention of stopping. Everything she'd seen so far of Magical Britain argued that it was not the sort of world she wanted her daughter to live in, and the only way that would change was if someone made an effort to change it. So she'd said no to the house elf, and to moving house entirely, accepting that there was an increased risk there, but judging it to be an acceptable one.

Though she had, however, challenged Lyra to come up with some way to adequately protect her without relying on a bodyguard. It had not escaped her notice that her daughter's young girlfriend was, in Susan Bones's words, mad clever, nor that she routinely came up with projects to entertain herself which everyone around her, or at least those who understood them, considered impossible. The magical bedsheets, for example. Emma wouldn't have trusted just any fourteen-year-old to come up with a solution to this problem, but since Andromeda had gotten someone to give her wards a second look and after what Lyra had pulled at the World Cup — and learning a bit more about Bellatrix Lestrange and Ciardha Monroe — she felt surprisingly confident about it. (No matter how surreal that fact was, when she stopped to think about it.)

She wasn't nearly so confident about the decision to take up the Black seat on the Wizengamot. Not because of the danger potentially involved — or not entirely, at least. Voting the Black seat, appearing in public as an official representative of the Family, would be tying her own fate — and, more importantly, her daughter's — inextricably with that of the House of Black, in a manner that couldn't be easily undone. One could argue she'd already done that, with the vassalage agreement she and Dan had signed over the summer, but that decision hadn't been difficult to make. Once Emma had sufficiently understood the contours of House Black law, and the greater legal system of magical Britain it existed within, it'd quickly become very clear that the benefits of such an arrangement outweighed the burdens. Such might not have been the case if the current Lord were someone less permissive than Sirius, which meant it might end up being an issue down the line, for Hermione or her children or grandchildren, but...

Well, she didn't expect that to be a problem, honestly. Any heirs Sirius might have would be raised by him, naturally, and she'd expect them to take a similar perspective on such things — Sirius was essentially starting an entirely new House Black, given his own beliefs and the fact that the Covenant would no longer influence any descendants he might have, the internal culture would be different going forward than the one Andromeda had grown up with. Lyra, given her...religious inclinations, would be equally permissive, should the title fall to her.

And, well, if neither of them should have children, a possibility Emma honestly thought was quite likely, it was very possible Hermione (or her children) would end up becoming Lady Black instead. She'd checked the house law — if no obvious heir to the title were available, it could be claimed by the family's vassals. The Blacks did have other vassals, but they were estranged, future Grangers could theoretically be in a very good position to inherit the entirety of the House of Black, all its titles and all its assets, at some point in the near future.

Emma hadn't explained this reasoning to anyone, of course. It wasn't truly a primary concern, and seemed a bit...mercenary. But she could admit to herself the possibility had factored into her decision to accept the offer.

She and Dan did still both have doubts, though they were stuck on different points. Dan was fixated on the more immediate issue of Hermione's relationship with Lyra, which, while Emma wasn't nearly as concerned as he was, she could at least sympathise with. Lyra was...a bit much — honestly, just being in a room with her could be exhausting — and, knowing even just the vague outline of what her "mother" had done, she could see how Dan might be...concerned, with their daughter spending so much time with her, getting too close to her. He worried, and she could understand why.

She just didn't think it was necessary. Lyra was dangerous (she had killed people at the World Cup), yes, but she was also simple — not complex, she meant. So long as she continued to find Hermione interesting — which, given the things Lyra found interesting, Hermione shouldn't have any difficulty maintaining her interest — Lyra would never become a danger to her. In fact, Emma felt with one hundred per cent certainty Lyra would literally kill people for Hermione. Already, and they'd barely known each other for a year now — the longer they associated, the firmer that association would become. No, Hermione wasn't in any danger from Lyra, she was confident of that.

People who troubled Hermione, on the other hand, she wasn't nearly so confident Lyra wouldn't do anything awful to them. This was one of those sentiments Emma avoided admitting out loud, but she honestly considered that a benefit. Dan would be horrified, but if Lyra ended up flat-out murdering any super-powered racist assholes doing their best to make Hermione miserable, well, Emma wished her good luck.

Sometimes Dan forgot that Emma never had claimed to be a good person. She'd think Dan would be used to a certain degree of ruthlessness, some of the things his mother said, honestly...

No, her concern was a more...political one. She was aware that, in tying their fortunes to the Blacks', Emma was essentially taking a political position on Hermione's behalf. Hermione might have no opinion on such matters at the moment, might not even know enough about the circumstances to understand what the political ramifications would be, but she would almost certainly develop an opinion eventually. Emma had very little idea what Hermione's politics might be like, decades down the line. Sirius was rather more liberal than the vast majority of his peers, she couldn't imagine Hermione wouldn't side more with him than most anyone else, but...

Emma couldn't help the feeling that Hermione was going to end up rather more...radical, than the alliances Emma was forming right now could possibly support. This was going to be an argument eventually, she just knew it, but she didn't see that there was anything she could do about it right now.

Circumstances being what they were, the only honest answer she could give Bríd Ingham was a crooked smirk.

Even as Susan moved to say something, a heavy vibration broke across the air, the stone floor shivering under Emma's feet, like the skin of an enormous drum — boom, boom, boom. By the time the echo of the last tone faded, they'd all swept over to their seats, Emma sidling behind the heavy black granite of Sirius's house. She felt a bit ridiculous, flaring her silly long coat to sit on the bench properly...but with the cloaks mages wore all the time, it was probably just her. There was another brief moment of chaos, a last few stragglers dashing to seats, aides scrambling about, before the Chief Warlock stepped up to the lectern to Emma's left, a single raised hand bringing silence down over the Hall.

With some effort, Emma managed to keep a glare off her face — she was not impressed with Albus Dumbledore, and the more she learned the less she liked him.

For a few minutes, Emma waited, as the Wizengamot plodded through the typical opening comments, none of which was particularly interesting. Before anything else, the Wizengamot was a forum for the nobility — there were a number of matters, some economic but mostly social or cultural, that they felt the need to air out here, which Emma thought was mostly just tedious. A litany of statements on one matter or another, announcements of betrothals or births or deaths, various sorts of contracts, bits about artistic or public projects, blah blah. Every session opened with these things, going on for some minutes.

It really was no surprise Sirius had only had the patience to deal with the Wizengamot for a couple months.

"Your Excellency." Emma started as, behind the desk directly next to the Blacks', Ciara Monroe stood, then straightened — she didn't think Monroe had any other matters for the Wizengamot, this was it. "I note a matter of protocol, if I may."

Dumbledore had stiffened slightly as Monroe spoke, which wasn't particularly surprising, they'd been political opponents for decades now. "Of course, Your Grace. What notice have you for this council?"

"I believe we have an unfamiliar face among our number. The House of Black has put forth a new voice who has yet to be introduced, Your Excellency."

"Thank you, Your Grace, I do believe you are correct." At Dumbledore's acknowledgement, Monroe politely nodded, sank back into her seat. His eyes flicked the bare couple degrees over to Emma. "Who stands for the House of Black?"

With as much dignity as she could possibly manage while feeling so distractingly silly, Emma rose to her feet. Forcing her voice low and formal, she said, "Your Excellency, by the grace of my Lord Sirius, I do. I am Emma Mae, an tuathach over the House of Granger, aurraithe by the guarantee of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black." Emma felt a hint of the South on her own voice, as always happened when she was trying to be especially formal, but it probably didn't matter. She doubted pureblood mages would recognise a Georgian accent as more foreign than a London one anyway.

Well, if the Prophet had managed anything over the summer, it was ensuring the members of the Wizengamot would recognise the name "Granger" — the uproar was instantaneous, and noisy as all hell. The only Granger they'd heard of had famously knifed the Chief Warlock in the back only a couple months ago, after all.

There was a bit of procedure from there, though it required very little participation from Emma. Her chargé from Sirius was floated (by Ciara) over to the head of Wizengamot Administration Services — something Tugwood, Emma had forgotten his first name — and it looked for a moment as though that would be that. But before Dumbledore could officially welcome her to their council and move on (no matter how very conflicted he looked), Lord Brown took the floor.

After the required pleasantries to the Chief Warlock, something in his voice sharp and hard, Brown said, "You will have to forgive me if I am mistaken, Your Grace." The sarcasm on his voice as he used that address for Emma was very obvious. "But it occurs to me, the only British Granger whom I can think of off-hand is one Hermione Granger, a classmate of one of my nieces at Hogwarts."

Emma felt an eyebrow tick up her forehead. He must be referring to Lavender Brown, one of the Gryffindor bullies Hermione had been dealing with for years now — calling them "classmates" was rather generous, she thought. "Hermione is my daughter, yes. I do not believe that is pertinent to the matter at hand, Your Grace."

"My niece is under the impression Hermione Granger is muggleborn."

"That would be because she is. What of it?"

Predictably, there was another uproar as the Lords of the Wizengamot who hadn't put that together already realised there was a muggle among them (perish the thought). It took some effort for Emma to hold in a smirk at their over-the-top histrionics. It was just so silly. Honestly, it was putting Emma in mind of that time one of her cousins had shown up for Thanksgiving with a black boyfriend, which was frankly embarrassing — reminding her of her aunts was not a flattering comparison anyone should hope to inspire.

Though it wasn't the first time pureblood mages had given her that feeling. The look of melodramatic sympathy Sirius had given her when she'd told him his mother's portrait reminded her very much of her own grandmother had been quite amusing.

Thankfully, the explosion didn't last too particularly long. There were plenty of people who were perfectly comfortable about the idea of a parent of a muggleborn in the Wizengamot, some even enthusiastic, mostly members of Common Fate and the Chief Warlock himself — ordinarily, a muggle coming to represent a formerly pureblood supremacist family would have Dumbledore tickled pink, but that it turned out to be the mother of the girl who'd almost single-handedly (if less than entirely intentionally) sabotaged his political career had him looking very conflicted, if still supportive. There were a few people in the Allied Dark and the Light, Ars Brittania especially, who seemed less than pleased, but Malfoy had her people well in hand this time (or rather, their heirs and other proxies — the more outspokenly problematic Lords of the Allied Dark were currently in hospital or Ministry custody), and the more racist Lords of the Light were handily outnumbered even within their own faction.

There was still a lingering moment of doubt, until the WAS Tugwood stood from the Ministry seats to explain there was precedent — before the imposition of Secrecy around the end of the Seventeenth Century, it hadn't been at all unusual for members of this council to send non-magical members of their families to speak for them, stretching all the way back to its earliest days. (Most were probably squibs, of course, but before the Statute the difference hadn't been recognised for most purposes.) The House of Black had even had non-magical representatives before, though not since the Fifteenth Century. While an entirely non-magical family couldn't be admitted to the Wizengamot by their own right, a muggle could be chosen by a magical family to speak for them, there was no rule against that.

It took a bit more bickering and grumbling, but before long all objections were dropped, the Chief Warlock formally welcomed her among them, and that was that.

Returning to a seat under the continued glaring from her peers, Emma fought to keep a smirk off her face.

The last matter of business was something of a surprise — so far as Emma knew, it hadn't been on the official calendar. (But that wasn't unusual, apparently the calendar was more a guide than a proper schedule.) Across the hall, Lord Ainsley took the floor, rising with all the dignity the ponderous old man could summon. "My honourable fellows, I speak now not for the Noble House of Ainsley, but as the Chancellor of the Order of Merlin."

A brief whisper shot across the Hall, people realising what this was about. The Order of Merlin had been charged to consider nominees in the aftermath of the World Cup Riot. (It was commonly believed the Wizengamot picked people to admit to the Order, but it was the Order themselves who nominated them and the Wizengamot confirmed them...though the Wizengamot could also recommend people to be nominated and the Order could admit people the Wizengamot rejected in certain circumstances, it was complicated.) There had been a bit of speculation in the papers over who exactly would be picked — the options had been severely narrowed from the off when someone from the Order pointed out that technically someone had to be a British national to be admitted. That had led to a minor diplomatic snafu involving a Saxon wizard who'd nearly been killed rescuing a few British children, the comments a few public figures had made on the scandal leading to more scandals...and then there was the fact that if anyone should be honoured for what they'd done that night, it was Cassie Lovegood, but the Order was mostly nobility, and most of the nobility hated Cassie Lovegood, despite her overwhelming popularity internationally, so nobody honestly thought she'd be picked, which had led to a whole series of scandals as international observers and British figures bickered over it...

Yeah, the whole thing was ridiculous.

The list of names Lord Ainsley had brought for consideration was quite extensive, which was not really a surprise. With how slow the authorities had been to react, many private citizens had stepped up to fight despite being under no real obligation to, and each could theoretically be considered for honours. (Though, again, most were foreign nationals, and were therefore not even in the running.) But Emma was still somewhat taken aback by a few of the nominations for third-class membership Ainsley had. Sirius was nominated, that wasn't too much of a shock, but she was completely blindsided when Ainsley listed, "Arthur Weasley and his sons, William, Charles, and Percival, for their assistance in the capture of an unknown number of dangerous criminals, and the rescue of the Roberts family."

Emma counted up the monetary grant that came with four third-class admissions, converted the number into pounds, and then had to choke back a laugh. If someone was trying to bribe the Deputy Director for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, well, that was one hell of a good effort, but they clearly didn't know Arthur Weasley at all.

(Sirius would be happy about that one, at least. He'd offered to help them out — ostensibly to repay them for taking care of Harry, but actually just because he had money and they didn't — but they'd been too proud to accept. Because of course they were, Emma hadn't even met any of them yet at the time and she could have predicted that just from what little Hermione had told her.)

When Ainsley got to the second-class nominations, that's when things got really interesting. He only had three to give out, as it was a rather greater honour, not like the third-class memberships that were seemingly thrown about like candy at times. The first he named was Lyra, which was not at all a surprise — she had essentially won the battle single-handedly, everybody had expected her to be named (though Lyra herself thought it would never happen). The second would have been a surprise in any other circumstance, but with the ICW breathing down their necks they really hadn't any other choice. Britain was already in a diplomatically complicated situation, refusing to admit Cassie Lovegood into the Order of Merlin out of spite would just make it worse for no good reason. (For that reason, Emma had been pretty confident they'd nominate her, despite what idiots had been saying in public.) The third, though, the third was controversial enough there was another storm of shouting and arguing in the Hall, perhaps even worse than when they'd freaked out over Emma being a muggle.

Ainsley named for admission into the Order of Merlin, second class, Síomha Ní Ailbhe.

Mutely watching the explosion going on around her, Emma could only wonder if the Order of Merlin had collectively lost their fucking minds. Síomha Ní Ailbhe was literally in the leadership of a separatist militia! If they thought giving her a pretty title was going to endear Saoirse to the Wizengamot at all (or vice versa), these people were stupider than she'd thought...

All told, the routine business at the beginning of the session ended up going on far longer than anyone had expected. They'd been in session for almost three hours before Augusta Longbottom, two seats to Emma's right, stood to address the council.

An address she had not discussed with the other members of their fledgling alliance (though, again, it hadn't been difficult to guess the topic), and one which she likely anticipated would torpedo the entire bloody thing. But Emma rather thought it was understandable — Narcissa and her husband had undeniably escaped justice at the end of the mages' civil war, paving the way for upward of two dozen influential members of the Wizengamot (or their heirs) and highly-placed Ministry employees to do the same. (Augusta had been extraordinarily reluctant to work with her even before the riot at the World Cup.) Lucius Malfoy's trial in 1982 stood as a landmark case: the first instance of an Imperius Defense actually being 'proven' to the satisfaction of the governing body of, as far as Andromeda knew, any modern magical nation, anywhere in the world.

See, an 'Imperius Defense' was, as Emma understood it, kind of like standing in front of a court and telling them, with bold-faced conviction, the devil made me do it.

The Imperius was a mind-control curse — the most dangerous curse, perhaps, that Emma had yet heard of. Andromeda, who had experienced it, described it as being made to want to do whatever the caster wanted one to do. Lyra, who had also experienced it, described it as literally the worst thing anyone had ever done to her, ever. (She was even including her sexual abuse by her father, apparently, though Emma did assume the two were linked.) The caster's will completely overwhelmed the victim's, taking away all agency on their part. And it left no magical traces which could be used as evidence that one was not in control of oneself when one robbed a bank or raped someone or murdered someone in a fit of road-rage (or whatever the magical equivalent might be). Which was a terrifying concept. She felt that the mages were quite right to deem its use upon another human being Unforgivable, worthy of a lifetime prison sentence — though preferably in a prison like Nurmengard which, unlike Azkaban, did not use soul-sucking depression-inducing demons as guards.

But at some point in the past few centuries, some bright bulb had realised that if an Imperius victim had no agency, and there was no proof that they hadn't been under the Imperius when they committed their crime, well, that was reasonable doubt right there, wasn't it. (Not that the Wizengamot required proof of guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, but they probably wouldn't convict someone who had legitimately been under someone else's control.) There were, however, a few problems with such a plan.

First and foremost, the hypothetical Imperius Curse must have been cast by someone, and while it was possible that it could be cast on an unsuspecting victim from behind or the like, it was also unlikely that said unsuspecting victim would have no idea who cursed them. Apparently there was some sort of communication between caster and victim, which meant that it would be difficult to claim one hadn't recognised the caster while under the spell.

But, for the sake of argument, say the curse was cast by a perfect stranger, selecting a victim at random to carry out their crime. Leaving aside the fact that, if such was truly the case and the caster had motive to commit the crime in question, the 'Imperiused' criminal ought not to have had motive, or any connection at all to the victim of the crime, the range of spells a mage could cast while under the Imperius Curse was limited. Specifically, spells requiring a certain emotional state to cast were often inhibited — including the two other Unforgivable curses (the Killing Curse and the Cruciatus Curse), which were the spells supposedly-Imperiused criminals most often claimed to have been forced to cast.

And in the unlikely event that an Imperius Defense managed to convince the Wizengamot that the 'victim' had no motive for their crime, and no idea who might have cursed them to commit it, and they hadn't used any emotionally-charged magic in committing their crime, they invariably overlooked the fact that mages could read minds.

Emma, personally, found this baffling. She was certainly all too aware of that fact, but perhaps that was just because it stood out to her as being an especially terrifying and easy-to-exploit talent. It wasn't a particularly common one, being able to do it without a specific spell, but that didn't really seem like any reason not to be a bit paranoid about it. Especially since, regardless of their innate ability to just read your mind, the Lords of the Wizengamot were perfectly capable of demanding memories be submitted as evidence that the Imperius had been used on a person, to be inspected by forensic experts. Because, see, the spell might not leave any magical traces, but it wasn't exactly subtle — people knew when they were being affected by it, at least after the spell was lifted. It was possible to erase memories, yes, but that did leave traces which, if present, would at least circumstantially support the Imperius Defense.

In any case, while it was theoretically possible to use the Imperius Curse to force someone else to commit a crime, and for it to be proven that the Imperius had indeed been used to that effect, anyone who could actually cast the curse in question would be aware of the degree of communication between caster and victim, that they would likely be recognised. Which meant that if someone used the Imperius to force someone else to commit a crime on their behalf, they would most likely not allow that person to walk free afterward, when it was only too easy to force them to walk in front of a train instead.

Most people, she suspected, who used an Imperius Defense simply panicked, and seized on this as a potential way to escape culpability once they were captured, without thinking the thing through at all. According to Andromeda, before 1982, presenting an Imperius Defence seriously in an actual courtroom was practically unheard of — it really only worked in terrible novels, the sort with plot holes large enough to drive a truck through.

There weren't really that many mages who could cast it successfully. Even if the power requirement wasn't relatively high, it required a certain sort of personality, to dominate and subjugate the will of another person, especially one who resisted such control. Which was why, according to Andromeda, neither Lyra nor Bellatrix was very good at it.

Narcissa, on the other hand, was perfectly capable of casting that particular curse.

(As was Andromeda, according to Sirius — horrifying curses which could earn one a lifetime sentence in prison were apparently the sort of thing the House of Black traditionally taught their children around age ten.)

When Narcissa had seen the writing on the wall, decided that she and her husband needed an exit strategy should Lord Voldemort fail — as had been, apparently, looking increasingly likely as early as 1980, at least to his closest followers — she hadn't panicked.

The Blacks' (and Andromeda's) working theory was that Narcissa had used some magic or other to change her appearance, actually cast the Imperius on her husband, multiple times (albeit likely with his consent), sent him off to commit atrocities alongside the other Death Eaters, just to form the appropriate sort of memories, and when the whole thing fell apart blamed everything on Bellatrix.

Lucius and Narcissa had stood before the Wizengamot and sold them a pack of lies, handed over a passel of disjointed, Imperius-tainted memories of various Death Eater raids as evidence, and Malfoy had been fully exonerated. Narcissa had never even been charged with anything, because she'd been scarcely twenty years old at the time, her short voting record portraying her as ignorantly conservative, little more than a sheltered, privileged child, unfamiliar with the ways of the world. She had put on a show of wide-eyed naïveté and tearful betrayal, and there had not been a single Lord or Lady who dared impugn her innocence.

Mostly because, as Andromeda drily observed, they found it only too easy to forget that adorable little Narcissa, blonde and soft-featured, soft-spoken (at least back then) and publicly deferent to her lord husband, was, in fact, a Black.

There was, of course, no proof of any of this, aside from Andromeda knowing Narcissa as only an older sister could. Neither she nor Bellatrix would have sold Narcissa out. (Emma couldn't even blame Andromeda for that — despite being rather estranged from her at the time, Narcissa was still her sister, and imprisoning people with dementors was a crime against humanity, plain and simple.) And any Death Eater in a position to betray the gambit, provide proof that Lucius Malfoy had been an active, Marked Death Eater long before the point implied in the memories he and Narcissa had fabricated, was also in a position to be sent to Azkaban for the remainder of their lives — should Lucius not testify that they, too, had been unwillingly Marked, and thereafter enslaved to the Dark Lord's will without any need to resort to the Imperius.

That was, in fact, the crux of Narcissa's hold over the Allied Dark: all of them owed their freedom, or that of close family, to her 1982 Hail Mary. (Not that any of the mages were terribly familiar with American football, but Emma couldn't think of a better term to encapsulate exactly how absurd it was that such a ploy had succeeded.)

Which meant their idiotic decision to throw in with all the other British nationalists attacking Michael fucking Cavan at the World Cup — demonstrating beyond any shadow of a doubt that the "former" "unwilling" Death Eaters she and Lucius had vouched for would not have required any sort of dark magic coercion to participate in such activities fifteen years earlier — had put Narcissa in a very delicate position.

Especially since Lucius was one of the rioters who had been captured, presumably on Narcissa's orders.

Lyra apparently had no inkling of the importance of that bit of intelligence, but it was (according to Andromeda's analysis) undoubtedly a key element of Narcissa's plan to salvage the situation. Not that she had discussed this with any of their alliance any more than Augusta had. No, she had dismissed their inquiries (supposedly) in the interest of not dragging the lot of them down with her — a stance likely calculated to win her points with the rest of them when their negotiations resumed in the wake of this "minor upset", as she was confident they would. She simply would not have further implicated herself and her husband if she didn't have a plan.

Andromeda was betting it had something to do with the Marked, and thereafter enslaved to the Dark Lord's will part of the original defence, but exactly how Narcissa intended to leverage that claim into another illegitimate exoneration, even Andromeda could not guess. The Dark Lord, after all, had been effectively dead for the past thirteen years.

Still, she was as confident as Andromeda that the devious witch would manage to turn the situation to her advantage — and that of their alliance, dealing with the division within the ranks of the Allied Dark simultaneously. She had advised Emma not to second-guess herself. If Narcissa had wanted their help (regardless of their inclination to offer it or not), she would have negotiated to assure it at some point in the past six weeks. As she hadn't, it could be assumed her plan did not require any of their alliance to act in any way other than they were likely to without any intervention or machination on her part.

Which meant that Augusta Longbottom rising to address the assembly, calling for the immediate incarceration of the Lord and Lady Malfoy for perjury and fabrication of evidence in their 1982 trial, was...part of the plan. Supposedly.

And then...silence.

Not total silence — a fearful, anxious susurration rose almost immediately as the delegates muttered between themselves, their secretaries and legal advisors shuffling papers, presumably briefing them on the relevant statutes, heads turning from the still-standing Longbottom to Malfoy, who still sat perfectly composed, the tiniest of concerned frowns creasing her forehead.

It was certainly not the uproar Emma might have expected, however.

The Chief Warlock seemed to be as shocked as any of them, one of his aides scuttling forward to pass him a note, before being waved away. "Lady Malfoy, would you care to address this accusation?"

"Certainly, Your Excellency." She rose from her seat with smooth grace, still entirely unruffled. "If I might have the floor...?"

A flash of annoyance crossed Dumbledore's face, but he yielded the stage more or less gracefully, retreating a step back to sink into a seat. Narcissa looked much smaller than he had, poised behind her desk behind and slightly above him to his right, and concerned, but not worried. Not anxious or fearful, unlike so many around her. Perhaps slightly offended.

"I assume you realise, Your Grace, that your accusation is a grave one indeed..."

"Only so grave as the crimes you and your Death Eater husband have committed against this august body and the people of Britain!"

"I would contend, Your Grace, that my lord husband and I have committed no crimes for which we have not already been absolved of responsibility. Surely the record of our charitable efforts and political initiatives over the course of the past decade attest to the sincerity of our rejection of the Dark Lord's principles and interests. Neither I nor my husband willingly supported Lord Voldemort's movement, a fact which we proved to this august body in January of Nineteen Eighty-Two. I seem to recall Your Grace being struck dumb by the horror of the atrocities which my husband recounted, and appalled by the revelation that he had only done so initially under the thrall of the Imperius Curse." Between the slightest emphasis on that one word and the pointed reminder, Emma almost expected a smirk to form on the younger witch's lips, but she maintained her entirely serious demeanour.

Still, Augusta seemed to take offence, the tone of her return volley laced with more vitriol. "And now I am appalled by the revelation that your husband did willingly participate in the same sort of activities the both of you so convincingly condemned twelve years ago — he and the vast majority of those Death Eaters you vouched for in that trial! He was apprehended attempting to eliminate the muggle Tánaiste and his retinue only weeks ago, was he not? in the midst of the riot at the World Cup!"

"He was, yes." Narcissa paused to allow the room its gasps and a few seconds of muttering. "In a corporeal state, by the grace of the Dark. On which note, I would like to take a moment to extend my deepest condolences to the families of those whose minds may have been irreparably damaged in the course of their own capture."

"And what about those families who suffered losses to the violence instigated by your husband and his ilk!" Augusta nearly shouted — this time accompanied by a louder collective grumbling from the other seats.

"Weren't exactly mourning those losses, were you, Malfoy!" someone — Emma could hardly see who, there were enough people mumbling it was hard to pick it out of the crowd — interjected sharply.

"I have already extended my condolences to those families, personally and individually, Lord Diggory. As you well know. And I maintain that my husband and his associates, current and former, were not the instigators of the riot. They were, in fact, victims themselves. Five dead. Eight trapped in an incorporeal state long enough that they may have suffered permanent mental damage, a tragic state of affairs with which I know that you, Your Grace, must sympathise."

Oh, now that was a low blow, given the history between their Houses. Not Malfoy and Longbottom, but Black and Longbottom — Bellatrix, Narcissa's older sister and, if Lyra and Andromeda were to be believed, the closest thing she'd had to a parental figure for much of her life, had tortured Augusta's son and daughter-in-law into a permanent state of near-catatonia, only days after the Dark Lord's fall. Augusta's right hand twitched as though to go for her wand, though she did restrain herself.

Narcissa ignored this, continuing as though she hadn't just said something incredibly inflammatory. "Eleven in Ministry holding at this very moment, my own husband among them, reputations damaged perhaps beyond repair, through no fault of their own."

Augusta scoffed loudly. "Are you seriously going to attempt to convince us to release Marked Death Eaters who were caught red handed in— They deserve to rot in Azkaban, you—"

"No," Narcissa said firmly, cutting off the older witch before she could offer what would undoubtedly be a stinging insult.

"No?"

"No," Narcissa repeated. "You falsely anticipate my intent, Your Grace." Still with that same infuriatingly calm tone — Emma was starting to find it annoying, and she wasn't nearly so invested in the punishment of the apprehended Death Eaters as Augusta and her cohort. Or any of the mages, really.

On principle, yes, it was a terrible miscarriage of justice that they'd escaped prison in the first place, that they'd not only been released back into the general population but allowed to resume positions of power both in the Wizengamot and the Ministry. But Emma hadn't lost family to them the way Augusta had, and Amelia Bones, and, in fact, the majority of the members of their fledgling coalition. (The major exception being the Inghams, of course, who thought the Death Eaters and their most vehement enemies were all crazy people.)

One of Dan's greatest objections to Emma's involvement in the coalition (and Magical British politics in general) was the fact that she was rubbing elbows with people they knew considered people like them less than human, who had been involved in a violent cult-like organisation known to murder people like their daughter for the crime of having been born to non-magical parents, who had fabricated evidence to escape punishment when they were finally brought to justice, buying their continued influence in the corruption-riddled ruling establishment of Magical Britain with a combination of obscene bribes and extensive blackmail.

Even those members of the coalition who weren't Death Eaters (or married to them) were obviously willing to work with such people, and it could hardly be denied that those the Blacks were most closely connected to were Death Eaters. And, well, it also couldn't be denied that the Blacks themselves were...really not good people.

Even Andromeda, who had spent her entire career working on behalf of commoners and muggleborns, helping newcomers to Magical Britain navigate the political and legal situations they now found themselves in, was not-so-reluctantly impressed with the plan her sister had enacted at the end of the War. Sirius held a deep and abiding hatred for the majority of the Death Eaters, including Narcissa, but also the same pervasive attitude that Emma had encountered among the magical nobility thus far — that such issues ought to be dealt with between individuals and Houses, without involving the Department of Law Enforcement in any capacity. (Understandable, she supposed, given his experience with their idea of justice.) And Lyra, of course, saw no problem whatsoever with the atrocities her counterpart had committed in this universe, aside, perhaps, from the murder of the vast majority of their own family. (Maybe.)

Emma possessed the moral flexibility to recognise that the ethical and legal standards of her own society did not apply to that of the mages, and to adjust her thinking accordingly — when in Rome, after all. Dan didn't, but that was why she had made a concerted effort to insulate him from the details of her tentative new political allies' beliefs (and the Blacks in general). If the entire society had collectively decided to act as if the crimes committed in the war had all been adequately addressed, who was Emma to quibble? She would reserve judgment, give them — Narcissa and her Allied Dark — an opportunity to prove the position they now professed to hold. Her very presence in their midst served as a challenge to their racist notions, and one she was all too pleased to offer.

Assuming Narcissa didn't get herself murdered by Augusta Longbottom in the next ten seconds.

The Chief Warlock broke the staring contest which seemed to be developing between the two witches, Augusta positively rigid with fury, while Narcissa maintained that little, slightly-concerned frown. Emma had to question that complete lack of reaction. It made the older witch look irrational and intemperate in comparison, yes, but at a certain point self-possessed crossed a line into slightly creepy, and with an issue as emotionally charged as this... "Lady Malfoy, would you care to...elaborate on that response?"

Narcissa nodded. "Of course, Your Excellency. I do not suggest that the men captured at the World Cup Riot be released without charge. Quite the opposite. I..." Her frown grew more troubled, a hint of reluctance creeping into her tone, tempered by resolve. The relaxed tension in her posture was replaced by deliberate determination — bracing for impact — as she raised her voice, pitching it just slightly lower, more serious. "I fear I must inform this body that my husband and the other men marked by the Dark Lord are again being influenced by the insidious corruption of that magic. As such, it would be unconscionable to propose they be released to resume their positions among this august body and the other governing institutions of our fair nation. We have, after all, a duty to—"

Okay, Emma took it back — that had landed perfectly. Even with Sirius's assurances that Narcissa was a cutthroat bitch who wouldn't know an honest emotion if it crawled up her arse and died, she could believe that the younger woman actually believed the statement she'd just made.

The rest of her words were drowned out by all the uproar which had not followed her initial statement. She stepped back, assuming a patient sort of poise, her presence seemingly shrinking as arguments raged around her. Two points seemed to be of equally great contention: whether the Dark Lord was still, somehow, alive; and whether his influence over the Marked men had ever been such that their actions at the World Cup might have been precipitated by it. There was also a question of what was to be done with the men were that the case, though that debate seemed, perhaps, a bit premature.

Dumbledore allowed the chaos to reign for several minutes, at least as long as the explosion over Síomha Ní Ailbhe having been proposed as a potential member of the Order of Merlin, but when it showed no sign of abating — in fact growing more heated, several members' wands directed at others, sparks flying both metaphorically and literally — he took the floor again, attracting their collective attention with a twitch of his wand and a blast like a cannon.

"The question before the Wizengamot is this: what is to be done with the Death Eaters — or 'former' Death Eaters—" It was clear from his tone that he was no more convinced than Emma that they had joined the Dark Lord unwillingly, that he believed they still held some loyalty to that cause, if not to the man himself. "—who were captured in the wake of the World Cup Riot? We will hear arguments," he declared, staring down those few members who remained on their feet, "in an orderly fashion. Lord Peakes, you may have the floor."

It wasn't entirely clear how or why he had chosen Peakes to speak first, though as he began to lay out the (entirely noncommittal) position of his House and the solution he proposed (to reserve judgment for the moment, in favour of gathering more information), Emma began to suspect that it was because the man droned. By the time he retired from the floor—- from the glance she sneaked at her watch, only five minutes, though she would have sworn it was at least half an hour — the more vehement members seemed to have regained some control over themselves. There was a short burst of conversation before Dumbledore called the next speaker to stand to make her case for her family's perspective on the matter.

As the arguments progressed, the issue crystalised. Did Lady Malfoy's claim merit further inquiry in the form of a proper trial for her husband (with the goal of determining whether the Death Eaters had taken part in the riot entirely of their own will, or due to some external influence)?

There were other questions raised. If they were still under some external influence, how was that influence best neutralised? If they were still under some external influence, did that mean the Dark Lord was still alive, or that he was returning to power? What would that mean for the reparation agreements they had all been working out for the past six weeks? If it was true, why had Lady Malfoy not mentioned this earlier? This was not the first session convened since the riot, and she had not even raised the subject herself. If they were not under some external influence, what did that mean for those who had been exonerated in 1982? What about for the Malfoys? Would their behaviour and contributions to society in the intervening years be considered mitigating factors? But all of these were dependent upon the primary question of whether they had or had not been influenced in the first place.

In Emma's mind, it was ridiculous that they were even having this discussion — clearly the captured Death Eaters were entitled to a fair trial. (Not that Emma was particularly impressed with the mages' idea of due process, but a fair trial by their own standards, in any case.) She'd think that, so soon after Sirius's exoneration, even the idiots in the magical government would see the necessity of that. It was patently absurd to suggest that a trial was unnecessary, no matter how unlikely the claim sounded. Some of the Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot, however, seemed to believe that a trial would result in an unfavourable outcome, from their perspective.

They couldn't actually say as much, of course, but there was no other rational motivation for their comments, truly.

Some, like Augusta, had never believed the Imperius Defense. They were certain that the Malfoys had fabricated evidence back in '82, and would do so again in any future trial — that their duplicity was clear, and there was no point allowing them another chance to escape justice. Simply sentence them and have done with it. Others, Emma suspected, believed that if this went to trial, they would essentially end up re-trying the case from '82 as well, but with, as at least two of the Light Lords had hinted, new evidence which had been revealed in the intervening years, resulting in convictions for crimes which had already been adjudicated and dismissed. (Double jeopardy was not, apparently, forbidden under Magical British law.)

"Very well," Dumbledore announced, as yet another Lord returned to his seat, and none of the others clamoured for the next word. "If we have heard all arguments...? Then let us put the question to vote: Shall the Death Eaters captured at the World Cup Riot be formally judged before the Wizengamot?"

"Your Excellency," Emma called, in the brief pause which followed that sentence. "The House of Black would like to put forth one final argument."

It might have been her imagination, but she thought she saw a hint of trepidation on the man's ancient, stress-lined face. "By all means, Your Grace. The House of Black has the floor."

Right, time to make an impression, then, she thought, looking out over the dozens of occupied seats. Most were watching her with a challenging sort of air to them, no doubt wondering what the hell she thought she was doing — or whether she was prepared to speak on behalf of the Blacks, given that it was her first session, and there hadn't been a muggle in the Wizengamot in centuries. Narcissa, behind the Malfoys' ornately carved desk, its white wood inlaid with silver and emeralds, fixed her with a narrow-eyed, speculative expression. Little Susan Bones gave her a covert thumbs-up. Augusta didn't take her eyes off Narcissa, still looked, in Emma's opinion, as though she'd like to strangle her erstwhile ally with her bare hands. Bríd and Ciara were exchanging a series of looks and minute hand-gestures which said as clearly as words that this wasn't planned, and what the hell is she doing?

Because they had agreed that she would keep a relatively low profile at this first meeting — that they would assume a sort of holding pattern, give Narcissa time to get her people in line (or not); the rest of the Wizengamot time to come to terms with Emma's appointment; and Emma a chance to get a feel for the positions of the other factions within the assembly. It had been assumed by all of them, Emma included, that she would simply observe the proceedings.

But Narcissa's gambit had taken a path they had not anticipated — or, that Emma had not anticipated, at least — and the right of all prisoners, even those quite reasonably believed to be Death Eaters, to a public trial, or at least one before their peers, was an issue on which the House of Black couldn't not weigh in. It wasn't quite the same circumstance as Sirius's, of course — the rioters had been caught red-handed, their wands providing evidence of their recently-cast spells, with dozens of eye-witnesses willing to testify, none of whom were muggles who had been routinely obliviated before they could be properly questioned — but while their guilt was not in question, their culpability still was, which meant a trial was necessary. Regardless of how many Houses feared the potential outcomes of such a trial.

"Thank you, Your Excellency. I was warned that this esteemed assembly could at times be, shall we say...inflexible, in defending the rights and positions of their Houses, and overly prudent, in considering new ideas. I was not warned to expect such openly asinine cowardice from my fellow delegates."

She paused to allow the expected uproar to commence, and the Chief Warlock to shout them down. She certainly wasn't about to attempt to do so — they had magic to amplify their voices, she doubted they would even hear her, regardless of the acoustics of the hall and how well she projected. Imagine being insulted by a muggle on the bloody Wizengamot floor! How dare she! (To be unfailingly polite and accommodating would hardly be in keeping with the traditions of the House of Black, that was how.) When the hubbub subsided, she gave it a few more seconds, just for effect.

"But how else ought I to interpret the suggestion in this body to dismiss the claims of any of its members to innocence against the crimes of which they are accused — explicitly denying them those rights to their own defense this body purports to recognize?" Not, strictly speaking, an accurate characterisation of the situation, but close enough. "I am well aware that my people are not considered, among Britons, to have much in the way of principles, but even Americans hold the right to a trial before one's peers to be an inalienable right."

Another moment of outrage, and not surprisingly: the reputation of the Americas in most of the ICW states was, apparently, even worse on the magical side than the non-magical side, largely because the American mages (especially the Native American mages) thought the Statute of Secrecy was complete bullshit — a perspective which Emma could not bring herself to disagree with — and because certain magical states in the Americas were far less restrictive regarding the practice of various magics considered "dark" by the majority of Europe. Granted, Emma did not condone radical experimentation on humans with no ethical oversight to speak of (the idea of Miskatonic University having an Internal Review Board was laughable, apparently), but it certainly wouldn't hurt to warn the peers of the Wizengamot that she was likely to be more...open-minded, than they might expect.

Though, that too, was in keeping with the reputation of the House of Black.

"This body only months ago concluded, in its review of the sentencing of my Lord Sirius, that he was, in fact, wrongly held from November of Nineteen Eighty-One until he saw fit to rectify the situation himself in July of Nineteen Ninety-Three. This conclusion was reached in spite of evidence which seemed, superficially, to indicate his guilt, back in Nineteen Eighty-One. In light of those facts, that anyone might suggest it 'unnecessary' to provide an opportunity for the accused to argue in their defense, in even the most damning of circumstances, is frankly absurd.

"I can only assume that such shortsighted suggestions must be motivated by some fear that the truth will not reflect favourably on one's position — unless, of course, it is a desire for vengeance. But I could hardly suggest that any of those who have argued today against a fair trial for the captured rioters have any desire to dissolve once and for all what remains of the already fragile truce between certain factions of this body. Surely it would be beyond the bounds of reason for any faction, at this juncture, to wish to resume open hostilities."

How dare a muggle have the temerity to comment on a war which had shaped so much of Magical Britain's recent history — to point out exactly how close they were, at this moment, to reigniting a conflict which would, if the demographic trends Emma had noted were any indication, spell the end of their society entirely! The audacity!

"Regardless, however, of the moral imperative to try presumed criminals, or the personal and political motivations one might or might not have to preserve a degree of peace within the society we profess to lead—" How dare this muggle refer to herself as one of them, despite being recognised as a member of their assembly only hours ago! "Regardless of those motivations," she repeated, raising her voice slightly over the muttering, "there is another point which has yet to be addressed." One which she was, quite frankly, surprised Narcissa hadn't offered — though it would, perhaps, seem disingenuous, coming from her. "If Lady Malfoy's claim holds true, if the Dark Lord this nation ostensibly opposed throughout the Sixties and Seventies is, in fact, not as dead as is widely presumed, but in fact affects our society through some more subtle influence to this day, you owe it to yourselves and our people as a whole to eliminate that influence." She let them consider that for a beat before pressing on. "Moreover, it may be wise to consider the potential implications of Lady Malfoy's actions here today.

"Surely if this Dark Lord persists, it cannot be in his interests to draw attention to any such continued influence. Regardless of any position members of her House may have taken in the past, to undermine any attempt by the Dark Lord to further influence the state of Magical Britain through his Marked servants, can only be interpreted as a genuine effort to thwart him, and one which will most certainly be punished severely should he somehow manage to return to power."

More muttering — had they truly not realised... But no, some of the people of the Allied Dark were looking distinctly uncomfortable. The young man at the Parkinson desk seemed especially furious — he must have been hoping that no one would call attention to the fact that they were trapped. If they voted for a trial, they were stating that they believed the Dark Lord was influencing their fathers and brothers and cousins, calling him out and doubling down on their families' denouncement of him in '82. But if they voted against a trial, that was tantamount to admitting that they felt their families would not be exonerated, thus implicating themselves and all of their allies for their actions in the War.

"As such," she concluded, (trying very hard not to smirk, as she caught Narcissa's tiny, cat-like grin), "I believe it safe to say that the House of Black is in full agreement with the House of Malfoy on this issue. We vote to try the captured Death Eaters."

She was well aware that it was presumptive of her to offer her vote before the Chief Warlock called for it — he would almost certainly ask for it again, both for the sake of formality and as a sort of rebuke for her usurping that responsibility — but it was hardly forbidden for a House to throw its weight so firmly behind one side of an issue or another. It wasn't Emma's fault that the House of Black was first on the rolls, nor had she intentionally waited until the vote was called to address the assembly — she had simply been waiting to see whether her points would be addressed by anyone else. Which they had not.

Ending by offering her vote, though, did effectively give her the last word, as no one attempted to rebut her points. After a few more moments' discussion — Susan, seated between Emma and the rather irate Augusta Longbottom, leaned over to whisper, "I thought you said you wouldn't be publicly eviscerating anyone, let alone everyone!" to which Emma had to respond, "The House of Black does have a certain reputation, you know." — they were called to order again.

The vote passed, of course. Emma would have been shocked if it hadn't, even without her throwing her two cents in, but she'd still felt she ought to make their voice heard, so. The Allied Dark, she noticed, voted unanimously to go to trial, which she fancied might have had something to do with her pointing out their quandry to the less politically-minded representatives. On the whole, she thought, a good first impression.

By which, of course, she meant she'd probably pissed off just about everyone other than Narcissa and Susan. But the House of Black did have a certain reputation to maintain.

---

The Gaels use a few titles of their own for things. Explaining a few of them here because they showed up.

[a thaoisigh] — This is the vocative form of taoiseach, literally meaning "leader". (In irl Ireland, it's also what they call their prime minister.) Modern Gaels mostly use it in the literal sense, for leaders just in general, but it's also the official title for the heads of noble houses (plus the Caoimhes, who the British don't consider nobility). Bríd technically isn't the head of her family, but while she's speaking for them in the Wizengamot she's treated as though she is.

[a thuathaigh] — This is the vocative form of tuathach, which is an old term for a tribal chieftain. (It's derived from tuath, which literally means tribe or people.) It's the official title for the heads of common houses, but also crops up time to time for leaders of, like, social groups and such, everything from artistic movements to book clubs to political parties. As an example, people in Saoirse would call Síomha (among others) this, though it's not an official title in her case.

[tánaiste] — It was briefly mentioned in a previous chapter that the title the irl Irish use for their deputy prime minister (Michael Cavan, in this fic) is also used on the magical side, so might as well explain that. Literally, the word means "second", and is thus used in any case of a second-in-command, or an heir, that sort of thing. It's also used for a position in local government that's sort of almost equivalent to a mayor. This one could theoretically be used for Lyra, since she's the only possible heir to Sirius, and makes a point of speaking for the family now and again, as a proper tánaiste should.

[aurraithe] — This is from a term for freemen in old feudal Ireland. (In modern Irish it's urraí, but I kept the old aurraid for a more archaic feel, then partially modernised the spelling.) Here it's used to refer to a newer house organised under the protection of more established one. Emma is consciously using the Irish term instead of an English or Welsh one for subtle politics reasons.

It's possible I think about this shit way too hard. —Lysandra

So, apparently the British Army also has dress blues. And like, six other variously formal uniforms. (The things you learn writing fanfic continue to amuse me.) Emma just doesn't know this. (By which she means I didn't know. —Lysandra)

I thought I would have more notes, but I think Emma said everything that needed saying, so. —Leigha